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legacySPACE Africa
Love and protests
Wanjiru Koinange
Wanjiru Koinange is a Kenyan writer, entrepreneur and the co-founder
of Book Bunk, which restores Kenya’s old public libraries and
turns them into inclusive spaces
of art, learning and community. Her debut novel, The Havoc of Choice (Book Bunk), is the story of Kavata, whose life and country come undone at the same time. Hers because her father, a corrupt politician, talks her husband into standing for office; her country’s as
a result of the 2007/2008 post- election violence.
By Wanjiru Koinange
LAST YEAR, I EMBARKED
on a wistful research trip that sought to explore if and how Africans, young and old, were using the internet to find love and romance. I had a few theories based on my experiences in Nairobi where online dating is still widely regarded as a last resort for worried singles and hopeful divorcees.
I had a basic plan: get
to a few cities (Banjul, Dakar, Saint-Louis, Lagos, Gaborone), download whatever dating app was the most popular there, swipe and see what unfolds.
The moments in between swiping I spent exploring the cities offline via bookshops, museums, libraries and in conversation. Each country delivered its own nugget of wisdom in regard to online.
In cities like Banjul with a smaller population, social media is where the magic happens. Direct messaging is likely to yield better results than any of the apps that are more often used
by tourists and ‘summer bunnies’. The online space in Dakar felt layered and complicated, more so to foreigners who expect to get by with little to no French or Wolof. In Lagos, abundance is the name of the game
and for this reason I found little patience there for romance or for that delicious ambiguity of those first few encounters. Although I had felt that it would be the city
I had the least in common with, my dating experiences there were unparalleled.
Now it’s mid October. I am writing this after consuming hours and hours of footage of the #EndSARS protests
in Lagos. Suddenly Nigeria feels like home. All I see on my timeline are the faces of the people who, like me, are
tired of being afraid of the people who are supposed to make them feel safest.
When I was in my early 20s, my sister and I had our home broken into and went to report the matter. It was my first encounter with a police station in Kenya and bytheendofit,Iwasmore afraid of the police than of potential burglars.
When I had arrived at the airport in Banjul at the start of my Outriders journey, the first time I felt anxious was when I was standing in front of the immigration officer. He was kind, so I became suspicious. He asked for my address and I was afraid that he may use it. When he handed my passport back to me, his phone number was inside it along with the insistence that I use it.
Whenever I get pulled over at a police check in Nairobi, I hope for the best and brace for the worst. I reach for my phone to dial my brother’s number and try to remember what part of the traffic act forbids police officers from entering private vehicles. During the first
few weeks of the Covid-19 lockdown in Nairobi, more people were killed by
police enforcing the curfew than by the pandemic
that led to the curfew.
Everyone I spoke to during my travels was essentially looking for
the same things, be it on Facebook or Bumble. Love and companionship were often a means to feel seen, respected, accepted and safe. The well-being of the most vulnerable people in our countries is too often threatened by the very people who are supposed to protect it. And like many other things, we’ve grown to accept it. #EnoughIsEnough
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